


Justice’s Pursuit

by Darkrealmist



Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [15]
Category: The House of the Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle, Blood, Canon - Video Game, Character Study, Free Verse, Gen, Genetics, Gothic, Guns, Horror, Medical Trauma, Mutants, Poetry, Prose Poem, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Stalking, Survival Horror, Tarot, Tattoos, Terrorism, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 100-500, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: A poem based on the tenacity of Justice, set during The House of the Dead 4.
Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1200067





	Justice’s Pursuit

Justice’s Pursuit

Author’s Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.

Summary:

A poem based on the tenacity of Justice, set during _The House of the Dead 4_.

* * *

Escape from the AMS Branch Office Basement 5F Classified Documents Room.  
Incoming incident’s recursion, the ground shaking above. Worrying about the state of the surface.  
No backup facing these things that sway behind meaningless glass. Death metal in the underground.  
The path splits up ahead, and enemies cram through the absurdly deep crevices of so much destruction.  
All weapons in, James and Kate head down, downstail, as “they” specifically hunt them down.  
We’ll show them they picked the wrong brains to eat!  
Beyond the elevator hall, but this way’s blocked. They’ll need to find another way out.

A shackled hand punches concrete, releasing the agents into the water of the blood-print sewer arches.  
Four-armed, half-rotted disorderly orderly. The worse dizziness coming insanely up the lamp-lit corridor.  
Pus-eye infection, incapable of spread. Neglect of the narrow narrows confining his inpatient care.  
Too strong, the sagging tongue and yellowed teeth that hold them to account.

Lower and hectic the operatives bank the spillway. “This can’t be happening,” Kate claims.  
Defendant grip which blasts out and disappears back the bottomless, undefined tunnel.  
Follows surely, the decomposing simian’s two-step dropkick.  
Stomps loudly, guarding his swollen vocal organ – his right to prosecute and persecute.  
Bites his own tongue.  
Collapses, a gallstone on the cistern pool.  
Without mentation, the sword and scales are dissolved to black ooze.

He was fifty-three, born once, yet he’d recrudesce in the 4-Area parking garage.

I can’t help but be persistent, for I am annoying. What is it to be annoying, but to be blindly persistent?

So scathing, the brand of lawful evil.


End file.
